no need to compete

I had a rare experience this past Wednesday. For nearly an entire golf game, I was free from the need to compete.

It didn’t start that way. Bruce and I were in Cancun, Mexico, at the signature Jack Nicklaus course at Moon Palace Resort. We were paired with a couple of guys from the Rex Sales group—both of ‘em pretty darn serious golfers who brought their clubs, shoes, and gloves.I remember the feeling as I teed up (rented clubs, running shoes, no glove—and without golfing all summer). Nervous. Would I embarrass myself, especially being the only woman? A solid hit off the first tee. Whew.

By the fourth or fifth hole, I was hitting if I felt like it, picking up if not. Or playing best ball off Bruce’s. Not counting the whiffs. After all, it was a beautiful, breezy, sunny day. The sights and sounds were new. A flock of seriously turquoise birds clamored loudly and called for a photo. A crane posed serenely in the water.

I didn’t realize until the game was over that I wasn’t competing. Mind you, I compete all the time--mostly against myself, but often against others at work, or running... Or heaven forbid, even at church. I have some impossibly high standards for myself, and I’m my worst enemy.

The absence of competition meant that I was present in the moment. I enjoyed the scenery. I celebrated the good hits of the others in our foursome. It wasn’t about worry or being better or anything except having fun, and that I did.

There was a big lesson for me in this. Competition is stress, continual comparison, and a robber. It steals my joy on a regular basis. I’m grateful for the lesson—and hope to bring it from the golf course into daily life.

from kansas to oz

Subtitled: From Kalamazoo to Cancun

Imagine the sensory overload after living in various shades of black, gray, and brown for the past months. As we walked through the resort in Cancun yesterday, it was beyond technicolor. Emerald Bermuda grass, deep green palms, glossy black mynah birds, and the azure and cobalt of the ocean.

Our room overlooks the ocean, and I can lie in bed and watch the palms blowing in the brisk breeze as the sun comes up. I sit on our little patio in the morning with my cup of coffee and my Bible, and smell the unfamiliar tang of saltwater and hear birdsongs that are totally new.

It reminds me that God has created all this, and that once again, I need to stop and experience the glory of a different landscape.

running and thoughts of a baby who died

Lots of thoughts as I ran today...

How running in the snow requires such determination... Not just to overcome the cold or the excuses to stay in the warm house, but to take one stride and then another. Slipping and sliding, seems like more sideways than forward progress. But forward I go nonetheless. And when I am done, I know that I have kept a commitment to myself, and that is important.

While I was running today, I spent time praying for Melissa. Losing a baby 8-1/2 months into her pregnancy, two weeks before her due date. There's no way to imagine what she is experiencing.

I began to knit the baby a hat today, a remembrance hat in memory of a baby she has lived with for all these months, but will not get to know on this earth. It is of the softest, most luxurious white mohair, and I prayed through each stitch. Peace, comfort, strength, hope, healing, love, mercy. Simple words. Sometimes just "Jesus". I think about how we don't know what to say when a baby dies. There really aren't any answers, no making sense of it. I believe that God is good, and that He is love. So again I pray peace, comfort, strength, hope. I think that I am knitting this hat to say that this baby is a life that must be acknowledged, though there was no breath, and death occurred before birth. It's my silent way of saying, I will remember.

Running in the snow reminds me of grief. Moving ahead, but suddenly a sideways slip, a sudden stop. Maybe even falling down. Yet eventually coming through.